Page 25 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter twenty-five

I step into her office without knocking.

Her assistant startles but says nothing.

Smart.

The room is smaller than it looks on a security feed, efficient, tidy, lit with soft daylight from the single wide window behind her desk.

There's a faint scent of ylang ylang, bergamot and something faintly citrus, maybe lemon.

Not a fragrance meant to draw attention, but the kind that you remember.

Of course, my sweet girl isn't going to be obvious.

Her scent is just her, subtle, sexy, and unique.

Reagan isn't here.

Letting my gaze scan the room.

Sparse decoration.

A stack of neatly organized performance reports.

A coffee mug that says "In my Lady Boss Era" in cracked gold foil .

Typical.

Then I see them.

They weren't on the security feed yesterday.

Two framed photographs were side by side on the shelf behind her desk, a little above eye level.

The first is black-and-white Jim Corbett standing over the corpse of the Champawat Tiger.

His expression is grim, resolute, the muzzle of the tiger still wet with blood.

The second is older, sepia toned.

Colonel Patterson, posed above one of the Tsavo lions, its massive body stretched out some hellish trophy.

The eyes are lifeless.

The message isn't.

And above both photos, centered in an elegant brass placard, a single quote:

"The predators must prey. The prey must be predated. They only wish to be preyed upon by someone who'll do the job properly."

—Chuck Palahniuk

I stare.

It's not subtle.

No photos of family.

No affirmations.

Just hunters.

Lions.

Tigers.

Death.

And desire to be preyed on properly.

This isn't decoration.

This is declaration.

She knew I'd come.

Knew I'd see.

And this, this is how she chose to speak.

Not with fear.

With precision.

With teeth .

She's not lost in the woods anymore.

She's laying traps in them.

A challenge.

A quiet, calculated provocation.

The door opens behind me.

I don't have to turn to know it's her.

"Looking for something, Mr. Calhoun?" Reagan's voice is smooth, unhurried.

"I had a question about the retention metric from your Q1 report," I say without looking away from the wall.

"Funny. I don't remember any metric involving man-eating tiger expeditions."

Now I turn. She's wearing slate-gray slacks, a tucked cream blouse, and that look, one that doesn't flinch.

"You don't strike me as someone who glorifies blood sport," I murmur.

She walks past me, places a folder on her desk.

"I don't. But I appreciate a clean kill."

"You've been doing your homework," I say.

Her lips curve into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Just brushing up on predators.

You never know when you'll need to recognize one." I nod slowly.

"Or become one." Her smile sharpens.

And this time, it reaches her eyes.